


51ck 9R1ND2

by chocolatemilk2



Series: sxc times [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Latula/Mituna, PWP, Tentabulges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:44:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatemilk2/pseuds/chocolatemilk2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tulip sends his heart off the rails ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	51ck 9R1ND2

Mituna’s hair is disheveled and clinging today, curling over his eyes and ears, thrown over to one side. Helmet hair, you sometimes tease, tugging at a stray lock or mussing his whole hair up. He really is just too cute, and by cute you mean _holy hell_ _hot as fuck._ The days you do get to catch a glimpse of skin, when he pulls off his gloves to wash his hands, your concentration falters, and your imagination goes imagining his _fingers_ all over you, all over him, wet and clinging like his power suit. Whoever invented lycra has to be mega wicked, because that stuff is the bomb on his ass.

So sometimes you do forgo the tights and undershirt skating around him, what of it. You’re only human, and if you can pretend Mituna’s gaze is lingering on your legs a little long because of the wrong reasons your day gets about twenty thousand times better.

“Umm, sjdkd is it okay if we hit the uhh, rails today?” Mituna asks, and _that stutter_.

“Sure, that sounds awesome!” you say, since you’ve been practicing and grinds are a total rush.

You dick around with him in the car lot for awhile, doing ollies and manuals, until Mituna decides you’ve warmed up. He kickturns sharply and skates around the bend and down the alley, and stair slopes, that they installed for wheelchairs. You think you’ve seen Rufioh’s ancestor use it once? It’s pretty fun to whirl down if you duck low with a run up. Tuna’s got the curves perfect. He’s so graceful on the board, compared to the way he moves, it’s a wonder to behold and you’re always itching to glimpse more of it.

He cuts sharp left before the stair rail, gesturing for you to go first. You blush a bit, nodding and biting your lip as you work up the down force, examining the rail. It’s wide enough that you can ride parallel along it or grind down proper, but there’s a break in it over the landing before the next rail you’ll have to jump for.

You twist and vault onto the rail sideways, shifting your balance on the down turn. The scrape is sharp and you can feel the wheels spinning out as you skim the surface. Life blurs. Your arms are poised so you don’t bank hard, and you catch Tuna watching them in your periphery before you spiral to the next rail. When you land on solid ground again you have to pivot and power slide to drop your powerful pace.

He opts for the safe 50-50, but gets massive air over the second rail, and you gasp. He almost lands on the slope with how far it pushes him, except he catches himself early, dropping deep on the slant edge and picking up to make the end shift. When he drops off the rail, he keeps rolling and circles around you, his helmet flashing in the morning sun. His breath’s heavy already, small, audible huffs. You raise a hand to give him a hi-five and he ducks down under it and slaps it, rolling on past you crouched down.

You copy his idea and try to kickflip in a crouch, which fails, the board smacking you in the face. Both of you race the stairs for another shot, and this time he surprises you, holding your hand and asking if you can go together.

It’s harder to co-ordinate, two people, but Tuna’s been doing this a lot longer than you, even if he stuffs up more. He ollies low onto the rail and you try to go slow and not crash into him, and he’s laughing with the thrill of it already and you haven’t even made the rail’s slope.

He sails along the rail front-board and you have to twist and switch to copy him, correcting your habit. Holding one hand out straight is hard on your balance though, and you have to worry about not slipping backwards onto your head as well as evening your wheels proper.

He ollies for the next rail. You’re tugged forwards sharp when he lands and you windmill your arms, trying to lean back and reorient for the aerial. You get the jump but stick the landing, and you pull him down with you as you crash tumble down the stairs.

“ArrrrrFUCCCKing shit,” he swears. He stumbles to his feet but you’re still on the ground, trying to push yourself to your knees and reclaim your cool. “Fuck, Tulip, are you alright?”

“I-I’m fine,” you say, but you’re not sure yet. Your knees and the heels of your hands are bleeding, because you were an idiot and decided not to wear tights, and where you landed on your side your dress has ripped clean through. “Shit,” you hiss, hiking it up to get a look at your hip scrape. Yowch.

Mintuna’s staring though, and his face is pink. You cough and lower your skirt, but he got up all close to see if you were okay, and your cheeks are burning hot. He offers a hand to help you up, and you grab it, brushing the dirt out of your scrapes.

“Fuck that was all my fuckingng fault I didn’t mean to, shit.” Trust Tuna to get more worked up about your injury than his. “I am so so SORRY. Do you want to keep going?”

“Sure, that’s neat,” you say, flashing him a smile, and he sighs with relief. Your heart pangs a bit pale to hear it, and swells all up when he doesn’t decide to shy away from the rails. It’s great watching him, the way he glides and the way his hips whip when he turns, even if your knees now feel a bit shaky to do it yourself. Your cheeks flame as red as your glasses. He’s going to think you’re such a slut for flashing him your underwear. Or soft, chickening out at such a weak injury. That stack you did was so lame, and your reaction? Talk about _fragile_.

God, you’re obvious. Or desperate, you’re not sure which.

The hormones you can deal with. He’s _such_ a nice troll though. All the other guys you know are all bravado, and gusto, and brains and shit, but Tuna you don't have to worry about impressing. You wish you could, but you don’t _need_ to. You know if you got with Kankri, or Cronus or someone, they’d always be watching you to see if you lived up to their expectations. Like you’d have to walk around looking as hot as Porrim twenty four seven, and you’d always be worrying if they talked about you behind your back or didn’t troll often. But you just know whoever gets with Tuna, he’s going to treat them okay. He’s just too honest not to.

Fuck you love Tuna.

“Ramps!” He whistles, and you grin as you kick off with a flipstart and speed as much as you can to catch up to him. It becomes a race, again, and you’re weaving in and out of his way and he’s laughing and shorting back to the wall. The ramps are free by the time you get there. Tuna goes straight for the double barrel, sliding off the lip and spiraling down into freeform, and you hum, wound near-painless as you play with the shortsloop. The air feels cool on your knees and shoulders. You feel sexy, flipping your board and flicking your shades, the way your hair streams behind you and flounces when you leap. You lose yourself in movement for a little while longer, until a tap on the shoulder reminds you of someone else.

Rufioh?

“Oh, hey doll… Some slick moves you got there.”

“Yo, thanks bro!” You raise your hand for a high five and he gratefully obliges.

“So, how about you and Captor?” he asks casually. One of his wings twitches a bit. Man, they are super rad. You’re jealous.

“Huh?” you remove your attention from his wings a sec. “So what about us?”

“You’re…. pretty _tight_ ,” he grins deviously. So approachable. “How’s a guy get close with a girl like you, is what I’m wondering…”

“Yeah, we’re kickin! Man, you’re having quadrant troubles? I thought you were a mega-popular dude, but it’s only fair you should come to a super ace girl like me about it.”

“What’s your secret?” he asks in a solemn way, and you laugh.

“Secret,” you answer with a wink. “But since I’m embarrassed for you, get a load of these tips. For one, complimenting their style and asking how they’re rollin. Sure fire to show an interest. Or you can practice their hobby, chat with the chick over it. Maybe you could buy them a new gamegrub or something cute like that!”

“I don’t think Horuss is all that into gaming,” Rufioh says, hiding a smile. “But maybe I’ll try it out. Thanks, Latula!”

“Horuss?” you ask, squishing your excitement. “You’d be tops together! Man, I bet he’s so stable, what with Meulin papping him around. Lucky you.”

 “Excuse me, but what are you hgnn, talching about here?” Mituna asks all of a sudden, linking your arms. “Whach are you doing, talking to her?”

“Nothing,” says Rufioh, blinking. His jacket is stripes arc when he shifts.

“Then go do nothing somewhere else, please.” Mituna? “Okay!?”

Rufioh frowns. “Chill… Dude, we’re just, being friendly. Latula was giving me some advice.”

“Go _away_ ,” Mituna growls. His horns spark a bit.

“I’ll talk to you later, okay Latula?” You nod, waving at him.

Mituna is making a sort of “hrrrrrgh,” sound that he only makes when he’s really upset. “Whoa, Tuna, you say, brushing his hair out his eyes. “What’s this about, huh?”

“You’re MY friend,” he says, taking your hand again. He sniffles a bit. Oh man, he’s so cute.

“You know it. What’s wrong?”

“He… liked you. He wanted to go out with you,” Mituna sputters.

“I’m going to have to date someone eventually,” you say, trying to sound understanding. “Rufio doesn’t like me. He’s into Horuss.”

“But, he’d have to be an idiot not to like _you_ ,” says Mituna. You’re floored.

“You really think I’m all that?”

“Hell yeah!” Mituna says. You can practically hear the 3’s. “You’re such a babe.”

“Wow, thanks, Tuna,” you stutter, trying not to repeat _you’re such a babe_ too many times in your head. “You’re pretty jammin’, I gotta say.”

“What?” says Mituna.                                                                                                                               

“Hot stuff,” you reply.

“I… eugh you… no… Latula?” he asks. “You think? Me?”

He’s utterly bewildered, and you’re not sure whether to laugh or apologize. “Yeah, you. You’re fine as fuck, bro.”

“Not as fine as you,” he mumbles, looking away and blushing.

“Mituna?” you ask, and you swear you can feel your heart stopping. You’re going to do it. You’re about to do it. “Do you… like me at all?”

“I’m sorry!” he says noisily, and you try not to look like your heart is breaking.

“Nah, it’s fine,” you utter. “You don’t have to.”

“No! I argh… Latula,” he says, and kisses you on the cheek. “Love.”

Your heart thuds, and you take off his helmet slow, to look into his eyes. He looks earnest, and honest, and wonderful. _Lovely_. You can’t take it and you swoop in and kiss him, tender and sweet, feeling the press of his cool lips between yours. He responds slowly, fiercely, sucking needily on your fangs and kissing you through, until all you can feel is bliss. He’s so warm and solid and light and hesitant, and you just want him to relax against you. You hug him very tight and he makes a little sound.

“Tulip,” he says, taking the crumpled flower from his pocket, and pressing it against your heart. “Wanted to show an interest.”

“Tuna, I hate gardening,” you say, smiling back at him. You’re rewarded with a tiny laugh, and he takes the flower and puts it in your hair.

“Know that, dumbo,” he mutters, bonking his head against yours. His eyes are so beautiful. “Showing an interest in _you_.”

You melt, and he hums happily, running your hair through his hands. He’s like a busy bee, and you’re a flower, and you love him like the sun in spring. If that isn’t too _sappy._ Hehe, zing.

“Love Latula,” he chirps, and winds a piece of hair around your horns. “Love her like boarding.”

You blush for real, and bury your face in his shoulder. “You’re real great!” you giggle.

Mituna giddily chuckles back. “Great, great, great,” he chirps. He plants a kiss in your hair. “Greatest.”

“So rad,” you say back, nuzzling. Oops, pale. “You’re sooo fine at boarding. Real wicked moves. Sexy.”

“I-I think you’re ho-hot too! Especially in that dress, f-f-fffucck.”

Score! You’re wearing tights less often, especially if you can get him to sound anything like that.

“You make me so slick,” you whisper in his ear, sliding a knee between his legs. “If you ever want to go…”

“Hell fucking y-yes,” Tuna says. You lean into kiss him, sucking his tongue into your mouth, and he’s so _responsive_ , moaning and keening, and his hair is like fucking velvet. Everything you dreamed about and more. His fangs press against your lips like they could own and own and never stop glinting. They’re warm and wet. His lycra is smooth and firm, washboard abs like you couldn’t believe and you want to feel them and lick them and make him hiss and sob.

“Come the fuck on, babe,” you say, flipping your board into your hand. “Let’s blow this fucking joint.”

And if you linger on _blow_ , or the feel of his hands or the look of his eyes, then it’s no business of anyone’s. Maybe even if you linger on blow so much it sounds like oh. Maybe even if you leave your hands in his back pockets and he pulls you against him like he never wants to let go, and you ride on his board until you reach your hive. You pull him in and slam the door, and drag him up to your coon and can’t stop making out with him. He’s flush against you before you get halfway there, grinding, his hands on your arms, trembling, his face hidden in your throat. Kisses, strong and thick work into your skin, and you’re winding your hands up his body and back, and he links them still together in his, like he can’t stop moving. Like he can’t stand to be touched so soft, so fast, and he’s fucking moaning and his hands are on your ass, and you can’t stand it either.

You pull up your skirt, and tug down your underwear, but his hands are at your top, rubbing at your skin. He smooths your collarbones and lifts up your dress, and you’re lost at the point where his ribs meet his sides, the firm muscle in between his breathing. He traces your boobs lightly and then kneads them, and you gasp and lock his legs around yours and hold his head very still between your hands. His breath comes out hard, and he’s kissing you like burning and you kiss him and languish in it.

You’re still touching his chest, the smooth contours of his pecs and scatching at his nipple when he presses you against the wall, staring into your eyes. He looks like he’s torn for a moment, between loving you and fucking you, and he kisses you as he palms your bulge. He kisses you as he sinks into you. You’re too busy fucking gasping, and squeezing him and pulling him closer until you can feel that stupid fucking lycra against your bare chest. He lost his gloves at some point and his nails scrape the base of your bulge as it pulls him tight against you, writhing in bliss. He strokes it smooth, so his thrusts are shallow and he just needs to fuck you, but he’s gasping and you’re panting and shaking. You wrap an arm around him and reach down and swirl a finger around his nook, and his breath hitches and his eyes go very dark.

He throws you against the wall then, and he fucks you fast and hard. His thrusts are deep and you can feel his bulge stiff inside you, stroking you like his fucking mouth or his fucking hands or his fucking—fucking—

You pull him up over you for the angle, so you’re fully press against each other and you’re grinding your chest against him, and your bulge is thrusting in between his fingers and he’s fucking you and fucking you and saying your name over and over in the lowest threadiest voice his chords have got, his horns sparking against your horns and making you shudder. You suck your hand and wrap your wet fingers around, one, two, and he swears and moans, mumbles, his bulge tightening and throbbing inside of you as you grasp at his fingers.

“Latula,” he sobs, and spills his yellow genetic fluid inside you. He swipes a bucket and shoves in between your dripping legs, kissing, caressing. You shake and take a deep breath and sigh, and then he’s out of you and tilting your head down. Your nerves go crazy as he licks your whole horn across in one swipe, sinking his fangs into the tender base between your skin and your nail. He pumps your bulge and rubs your nook, and you’re shaking and biting his skin, licking between his lips and his teeth, and you come all over his hands, teal and yellow.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, and stumbles with you over to the coon, stripping off the last of his clothes. He has the gall to look embarrassed about it after all that, but you just wink and slide in, and seconds later, he joins you.


End file.
